


The Magic of Lying

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Critic Stiles Stilinski, Drug Use, M/M, Magician AU, Magician Deucalion, Magician Peter Hale, Nogitsune Effects, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-15 20:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: On the other side of the stage the second man, Peter, smiled with an equal sense of authenticity that came only from years of practice. No one could smile that brightly, that genuinely at a crowd of people they didn't know. New magicians on the scene always tried their best to flash a smile at exactly the right moment with the right amount of flare, it only served to make them look awkward and bumbling. Not Peter's, his was precise and calculated.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles never trusted magicians. They were loud, boisterous, braggers. Simply being in the theater made him feel like a trespasser even with a legally purchased ticket (under a false name, of course) clutched in his right hand. He dropped it into a trash can on his way up through the rows of seats, already filled with rancorously chatting men and women. His seat was located behind a pillar and too far off to the right to fully see that stage but that was all right, he wouldn’t be sitting for long. 

He pulled his pen and pad out of his jacket pocket as he settled down into his position. He flipped it open to a clean page and added a date and time into the upper left corner. As the lights started to dim silence filled the room with an uncomfortable swiftness that never ceased to put him on edge. A hush swept over the audience. 

The curtains rose. The long black stage revealed itself and lit up red, then gold, and finally blue. The mysterious tune of a cello echoed from somewhere up front. A pair of red eyes flashed from the far back for just a second. Two men appeared on either side of the performance area.

The first man on the right of the stage smiled brightly and waved. He took a bow. _Deucalion,_ Stiles brain supplied. 'Deuc' as he was called waved again and a bright white bird appeared in his hand. He wore the traditional black and white garb that many of his fellow magicians were drawn to, minus the cape and top hat. Both of the duo's clothes were nicer than most magician's, not unsurprising considering the size of the crowds they drew. 

Supposedly, Deucalion was the more approachable of the two, though neither were a stranger to the phrase 'charming.'

On the other side of the stage the second man, Peter, smiled with an equal sense of authenticity that came only from years of practice. No one could smile that brightly, that genuinely at a crowd of people they didn't know. New magicians on the scene always tried their best to flash a smile at exactly the right moment with the right amount of flare, it only served to make them look awkward and bumbling. Not Peter's, his was precise and calculated. 

Stiles scowled at them.

In Peter's hand, a white bird appeared, identical to that of his partners. The transition was much cleaner than the last performance Stiles had been to, that magician had been much newer to the circuit and full of bumbling, awkward energy. To the casual observer it looked like the bird had been conjured out of nowhere but to Stiles, it looked like someone stuffed their sleeves. Those tricks weren't hard to disprove, not at all. It was the ones later in the act that Stiles was determined to crack, and they would make a fitting end chapter to his book.

The crowd clapped enthusiastically as though something mystical had happened when really all they bore witness to was deceit and trickery.

Stiles jotted a few notes onto his pad and rested his head on his hand. He waited for the performance to take off, for the two men to really show off their supposed 'talents' that sent the crowd into an endless barrage of cheers and clapping. Then, Stiles stood from his seat and walked to the front of the stage near the emergency exits.

An imposing bouncer wearing a black T-shirt eyed him warily. 

“Niklas Sommer,” Stiles said. In perfect French, he added, “medical technician. I've been told we had a fainter?”

The security guard looked down at him. Stiles looked back up with the dead eyes of someone who'd rather just be home.

“Identification?” he asked, also in French.

Stiles held up the badge around his throat. It had all the proper credentials, and if traced would lead back to a Niklas Sommer, a medical technician living in France near the Theatre des Bouffes, who just so happened to have use for an extra three hundred euro. Amazing how many people could be bribed if the offer was high enough.

The security guard took his badge and scrutinized it. He handed it back and motioned for him to head back behind the curtain. “La prochaine fois utiliser l'entree de service.” _Next time use the service entrance_.

“Oui monsier,” Stiles agreed with a tip of his head.

The dressing rooms weren't hard to find. Security staff, sound stage technicians, and others bustled around the crowded back rooms. A woman with a clipboard spoke into a headset, an anxious expression plastered to her face. 

There were no cages anywhere in sight, which was a surprise. Most magicians kept their animals close behind the curtain whether it be doves, tigers, or an unnatural assortment of exotics.

Stiles moved purposefully through the throng and headed towards the back rooms. He'd spent thirty minutes memorizing the building's blueprints to ensure he knew exactly where to find them. It helped that Peter and Deucalion were both notorious narcissists. He found their names were emblazoned in soft white letters against two black doors in the very back of the building.

Stiles pulled a pick out from his sleeve and worked it carefully into the door of Peter's room. The lock opened with a soft 'click'. He stood up, brushed off his knees, and slipped inside the room.

A rack of extravagant show clothes lined one wall with a few more casual outfits tucked on the end. Against the opposite wall was a desk and a mirror surrounded by lights and a variety of magazines, flowers, a bottle of wine – likely gifts from the sponsor of the event. 

Stiles rolled his eyes at the needless decadence.

He checked his phone for the time. There were roughly forty minutes before the performance was cut for intermission. Plenty of time to do his snooping and be gone. 

He yanked open the first desk drawer and rifled through it, looking for some sort of stage guide or reference manual, some type of book, a tablet, anything. Anything that could give him insight into how Peter and Deucalion's 'tricks' were performed.

He would debunk them, just as he had debunked all the rest.

He checked the second drawer and found nothing. Not even a pen.

He slid the second drawer shut and moved down to the third. It was missing a significant amount of space. He knocked on the side panels, and then on the bottom. The bottom sounded hollow. He furrowed his brow and knocked on the wood, then he knocked on the table. The sounds were different. The wood in the third drawer was different than the rest of the table.

He slid his fingernails around the edges of the little wooden drawer until they caught on something in the back. He dug his nails underneath and wedged them into the narrow space. A small piece popped up.

Stiles smirked and rolled his eyes. Always with the secret compartments, as if they weren't easy enough to find. Popping out the false bottom wasn't hard. All that he found inside was a small ball point pen, and a leather-bound journal. He snagged the journal, feeling preemptively victorious and stood up from where he'd knelt on the floor.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he muttered, flipping open to the first page. He scarcely caught a glimpse of the words before a voice behind startled him.

“Deucalion told me we'd be having a guest,” the soft voice said. “He didn't tell me he'd be so pretty.”

Stiles whirled around. The book fell to the floor, landing with its pages down. 

Peter Hale was almost unrecognizable without the black and white attire but his face was unmistakable. 

Stiles gulped. 

Peter was much paler in person without the stage lights shining on his face. His eyes though were just as keen and penetrating, filled with crystalline blue. His narrow-lipped mouth curled up into a lopsided smirk.

“I was just,” Stiles tongue fumbled in his mouth. “Uh. Just looking for the bathroom?” 

Peter laughed. “So you went into the room with a name on the door?” 

He stepped forward and Stiles stepped back.

Peter’s eyes narrowed suddenly, any trace of mirth leaving his features. “Don't think I don't know who you are. The little journalist who makes it his hobby to ruin careers?” Like a cat cornering a mouse he moved closer with a predatory grace.

Stiles swallowed and squared his shoulders. “I've never been a big believer in secrets and deception. Nothing I've written ever stopped people from coming to shows. If anything, the magicians I write about are more famous than ever,” he tried to shrug flippantly but the gesture was marred by his own, obsessive, lip-biting.

“So you say. Tell me, Stiles, how do you think a _real_ magician would react to being called a fake?” He stepped forward until they were only a few inches apart. Stiles could feel breath against his lips. 

“I don't think they'd react at all, considering magic isn't real.”

“You remind me a little of my nephew,” Peter said. For a brief, flickering moment a hint of bitterness entered his eyes. Then it disappeared behind a smirk. “But,” he continued, “I can prove to you that it is.”

“I've seen your show and I'm not convinced.” Stiles crossed his arms. He eyed the door but there was no way he could reach it before Peter. Even if he managed to dart out from his position he would still have to race through a crowd of security personnel. 

“Oh no, nothing like the _show_.” Peter’s words brought his eyes away from the door and back onto his face. “That's all it is, really, meant to impress but not convince. You still need convincing. Give me your arm,” Peter held his hand out expectantly. 

“What?” Stiles blinked.

Peter smirked. His eyes lit with amusement. “Are you scared I'll do something to you? Afraid you'll be hexed?”

“No,” Stiles snapped. A cold defensiveness ran through his body. He hunched his shoulders and bit his lip, but he didn't make any move to stop him when Peter reached out for his arm.

This time he felt the man's fingers, warm and slender clasp around his arm just below his elbow. The grip was tight and firm, but not as painful as he would have expected.

Peter maintained eye-contact all the while he raised Stiles' arm. As he did his fingers slid from below his elbow to his wrist until finally their skin met at the edge of Stiles sleeve. The man's long, slender, fingers wrapped tight around the narrowest point of his wrist.

Stiles resisted the urge to gulp. He could feel his pulse pounding against Peter's thumb, which rested just above the blood vein.

Peter's smirk only grew. It was the kind of smirk that would normally yield a taunt or retort of cruel or devious intent, but that wasn't what came out from behind it.

“What's your favorite color?” Peter asked. He tore his gaze away from Stiles eyes long enough to glance at what he was holding. He leaned a bit closer. Stiles felt a warm puff of breath as Peter sniffed his skin.

It was probably the strangest thing anyone had ever done to him.

“My favorite-?” Stiles thought, he might as well humor him if it kept him from having to spend the night in police lockup for trespassing just a little while longer.

“Blue,” he decided. “I like blue.”

Peter looked up from his wrist. “Wasn't the cover of your last exposé blue?”

“Maybe,” said Stiles. “Would you like to pick the color of the next one? It's only fair since it'll be your face on it.”

“Writing my first fan novel?” Peter raised a brow. His expression changed into one of mocking adoration. “Oh, I should have known this cat and mouse game was only a ploy. If I had only known all you wanted was a little attention. Tell you what – I'll let you be the head secretary of my fan club.”

Stiles opened his mouth to snap back at him. Peter pressed a shushing finger to his lips that made his face go red. His grip tightened a little around his wrist. He rubbed his thumb along Stiles palm, encouraging him to spread his fingers and lay them flat.

“Don't blink,” he cautioned.

It was in Stiles very nature to immediately be suspicious once such simple commands like that were given. Usually, it meant some trickery was being performed just in the periphery. When he tried to look up Peter's hand gripped his chin and kept him from turning away.

“No,” he said. “I mean it. Don't blink and I will prove that magic is real.”

“Fine,” Stiles said with an annoyed grunt. “Show me what you got.”

Peter smirk returned. “Oh, I intend too.” He released Stiles' chin and leaned in very close to whisper something in the air just above Stiles' palm.

It was no exaggeration to say that the magic happened in the blink of an eye. For less than a second Stiles' vision went dark. He felt a weight in his palm, a cool smooth thing against his skin. A blue rose lay in his hand.

“What do you think now?” Peter asked. “I didn't touch my sleeves, there was no assistant to help out. What do you think about _this_?”

Stiles looked at the flower. He curled his palm around it so he clutched the stem in his hand. A few of the thorns poked into his skin, threatening to break it if he pressed any harder.

“I believe that you're a very good illusionist who's learned many tricks over the years. I believe you're well practiced in slight of hand.” He risked looking up.

Peter's lips were pressed tight though his eyes remained unreadable.

“Thanks for the flower though,” Stiles said with a nervous little chuckle. “I've never gotten one from another guy before.”

“If that doesn't convince you, then I have something else that will,” Peter said. Without another word he clasped his hand around Stiles' wrist once more, this time with strength enough to bruise. He pulled Stiles towards the closet quickly enough to make him stumble.

“Ow- hey!” Stiles winced when he grasped the rose a little too tight and pricked himself. He dug his heels into the carpet, but Peter was hardly hindered by it.

Peter pulled the closet open with one hand. Inside was a mahogany trunk identical to the one Stiles had seen the magician duo use countless times on stage.

“Do you see this?” the man asked. “This trunk here?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, same as any other. What about it?”

“Look at it. Really, look at it.” Peter's lifted the latch keeping the trunk closed and opened it up. It swung open with an obnoxious creak. 

Stiles leaned over the edges and peered inside. All he saw was an empty black space large enough for an assistant – or two if they were limber – to fit inside of with ease.

“I don't see anything.”

“Nothing? Not even if you squint?”

Stiles squinted his eyes, curiosity getting the better of him. “No, I don't-”

Peter's hand appeared on his back between the shoulder blades and gave him a forceful _shove_.

Stiles yelped as he toppled face first into the trunk. His cheek hit the side of the velvet bottom before he knew what was happening. He felt Peter's hand on his ankle briefly, pushing the rest of his body inside the space before the lid was closed on him and he was encapsulated by darkness.

“Peter!” he shouted. He tried to right himself but the position he'd landed in didn't allow for much movement. He kicked the sides of the box in repressed fury. “Let me the fuck out!” he shouted and received no response.

He continued to kick at the wood panels for what felt like hours. He failed about and ran his fingers up the sides of his wood and velvet prison, looking for a false panel he could slip out through. Then, without warning the chest suddenly 'clicked' as the latches were undone. Stiles kicked the lid off the box and righted himself.

“Peter you ass-!”

Peter was nowhere to be seen. His clothes were gone, the trunks were gone, every personal effect had completely disappeared. Even the walls of the room were gone. It took a second for Stiles' eyes to adjust well enough for him to recognize that the box had been transported from the dressing room the center of the magician's stage. There wasn't a single trace of the swarming crowd from before.

Stiles stood up slowly. His muscles protested the move as if he'd been in that position for hours instead of mere minutes. He felt groggy, like he'd just woken up from a very long nap. Besides the box, he saw a journal, the same leather bound one he'd pried out from Peter's drawer.

He grabbed it again and flipped to the first page. Two small pieces of paper slid out from the journal. The first was a plane ticket from France to Britain, the second was a ticket to Peter's next performance. Scribbled in curly handwriting were the words, _next time you want to see me just buy a ticket._

It was only then that Stiles realized he was still holding the blue rose.

*

Two days had passed. Two entire days since the magician's performance at _Theatre des Bouffes Parisiens_. He couldn't remember any of it. He didn't even remember the trunk being moved.

He wandered blindly around the city in disbelief. It took three newspapers, six web pages, and ten conversations for him to be convinced that he had jumped three days ahead in time. It shouldn’t have been October ninth. He knew it for certain. Peter's show was on October sixth, there had been no rescheduling. He hadn't fallen asleep, he hadn't even closed his eyes. The chest had been dark, but he'd awoken without sore limbs from the cramped space, and he could vividly remember shouting at Peter the entire time.

It didn't stop him from flying to Britain, although he used the ticket he'd purchased himself, and had absolutely no intention of using the ticket Peter had given him. For all he knew it was just an elaborate and convoluted plan to get rid of him. 

At least, he had no intention of using Peter's ticket, until he realized that the two days that Peter had stolen from him had been instrumental in planning his intrusion into the Royal Opera House. He'd barely had time to arrive at the show before it began, let alone sneak in.

Reluctantly he handed over his ticket to the taker, who waved him towards the first row of seats.

Just like the Paris theater this one was decorated heavily in bright, warm colors. The floors, seats, and curtains, were a deep, rich, red, like blood or a rose in its natural state. The walls were white and gold and led to a high domed ceiling with beautiful gold lines. The outer railings of the balcony were lined with candelabras so intricately carved it wouldn't have surprised Stiles to find they were handcrafted each.

Despite the deception he knew took place here, it was a beautiful sight to behold.

He paused for only a second to admire the building. He knew Peter and Deucalion would be on the lookout for him after his first unsuccessful attempt at learning their secrets. They probably hadn't expected him to use the provided ticket, though, at least he hoped not.

His hopes were promptly dashed as the ticket taker waved him past the velvet ropes and into the large theater house. A chipper voice greeted him from the left.

“Stiles!” Peter called. He wore a bright smile, as if seeing an old friend for the first time in many months.

Stiles shoulders tensed. He took a step back, cautious of the open and public confrontation. It wouldn't be the first time a magician tried to embarrass him by calling him out in the open. Those situations never ended well for anyone.

Without his show clothes, Peter was still just as handsome, if not more so than he was on stage. 

A few more people trickled inside, chattering excitedly behind them. They hardly noticed the man they'd come to see was standing a few short feet away.

“I was almost worried you weren't coming,” Peter said in a tone that was nothing short of _purring_.

Stiles felt his fingers twitch with the urge to smack that smarmy grin off Peter's too-friendly face. He didn't know what kind of drugs he'd been slipped back in Paris but he was determined to make the man pay for them.

“How could I resist?” he asked haughtily, taking a step back. “Not after you were so nice to leave me an airline ticket and early admission.”

“You didn't use the airline ticket,” Peter pointed out. “I was going to send you a present.”

Peter reached into his sleeve and for a second Stiles felt an irrational crawling sensation down his spine. His mind flashed to images of daggers some magicians concealed so cleverly within their clothes. He steeled his nerves and brushed the paranoia back, Peter wasn't about to stab him to death before his own show.

To his surprise, only a singular blue rose slid out from behind the cloth. “I wanted to give you this,” he said. “As an apology for keeping you trapped. We had a lot of work to do, you understand. I couldn't have you interfering then but I don't mind you sticking around to watch what we have planned tonight.”

He held out the flower.

Stiles did not reach out to take you. “That's a thoughtful gesture,” he said with the polite but firm rejection of a seasoned diplomat, “but I don't accept gifts or bribes. Especially not after you've drugged me once before. If you'll excuse me-”

Peter's smirk dropped from his face as Stiles tried to slip away through the crowds that gathered around them. None of the people paid attention to the magician or the critic as they made their way to the seats in thick clusters, like little herds of sheep.

Stiles had barely taken four steps before a hand grasped the back of his jacket and snagged him back.

“Oh no, my darling,” the purring voice said again. “I wouldn't want my most adoring fan to sit in the nosebleeds. You belong up front.”

Stiles found himself being unceremoniously drug towards the front of the stage. Peter's hand was like a shackle around his bicep, he could almost feel a bruise forming underneath his blazer.

He was led through the throng of people right up to the very front of the stage. Stiles dug his heels into the ground as best he could to keep himself from getting pulled forward, but Peter was unrelenting in his forceful tugs. He dragged him like a small child down the row and into the center seat, which he was then shoved into.

“Oomph,” Stiles grunted as his back hit the chair. He looked up at Peter with a glare and opened his mouth, but the magician shushed him and gave a firm look.

“You stay here,” he said with a wag of his finger. “I wouldn't want you to miss anything now, hm? Don't go running off like last time.” His icy eyes narrowed in an unspoken threat. He motioned towards the side aisles where two burly security guards stood, arms crossed over their chests. One was practically a giant.

_Well fuck,_ Stiles thought with a bitter taste on his tongue. He knew getting close to the famous magician duo would be troublesome to say the very least, but he hadn't prepared to have a personal guard watching his every step.

“Don't look so disheartened,” Peter said with a light taunt in his tone. “Most people would have to pay a thousand dollars to sit where you're seated. Just relax and enjoy the show.”

“Most people,” Stiles said, “can be lied to for free.”

Peter shook his head and clicked his tongue. “So much distrust in your heart. It's such a shame, your face would be so beautiful if you wipe that scowl away.”

“Hu-?” Stiles started to ask with confusion. The magician didn't pause to hear his question before he turned on his heel and stalked down the aisle back to the stage. There was far too much swagger in his step for Stiles liking. He stuck out his tongue at the magician’s back, then turned to the present matter at hand.

His guards were both still posted at either side of the aisle, though the giant seemed less interested in maintaining sight of his captive now that Peter had gone.

Experimentally Stiles slid lower in his chair. Neither guard took notice of the movement. Around him the throngs of people were quickly filling up the empty seats on both sides. A couple to his left blocked his view of the giant, and an elderly woman to his right blocked the other guard as well.

Stiles stood – or at least attempted to. He couldn't lift his feet off the ground.

He furrowed his brow and yanked as hard as he could, but it was as if his foot had been super glued in place. He wrapped his hands around his thigh and tugged but he couldn't even lift it an inch. He tried slipping his feet from his shoes, but his laces were unnaturally tight around his imprisoned foot. He could wiggle and writhe and slide them along the floor but he couldn't _lift_ them.

Panic started to well in his chest. He remembered the dark, cramped space of the chest he'd been trapped inside of. A dark voice in the back of his head whispered strange thoughts to him. The voice pointed out the impossibility of the situation. If this was all a trick than he would have felt it, he would have known. He would see some chemical on the floor that forced him into place. The people who surrounded him would be affected by it too.

_What if it's real?_ the voice hissed, not in the least bit kind. It taunted him the same way Peter had. _This is real. This is happening. It's happening to you and you _cannot control it.__

_No, no, no no no,_ Stiles thought back. _This is a trick, it's all just a trick. Magic isn't real, magic isn't-_

“Are you alright, sonny?”

The words snapped Stiles from his trance. He looked to his left to see an older woman addressing him. Her platinum hair was wrapped up behind her head in a messy bun. A few of the strands had gotten loose and fell down her face just in front of her thick eyeglasses. Her thin lips were spread in a sympathetic smile. She reached over the armrest with a shaking hand and pressed it to his. Her warm, spindly fingers wrapped around his own and gave a light squeeze that barely made an impression on his skin. “You look nervous.”

“I'm okay,” Stiles said, his expression softening at the older woman. He released his trapped leg and looked back towards the stage. “I just – I need – Uh, my pills.” He reached into his jacket pocket and felt for the small bottle. To his dismay, it was lighter than he remembered. He pulled his hand from the woman's tender grasp so that he could fish one of the blue pills out onto his hand.

“Pills?” the woman asked with a laughing waver in her voice. “You are much too young to be taking pills, my dear. Save it for the old folks.”

Stiles popped the capsule in his mouth and swallowed. It left a bitter taste on his dry tongue. “I've been taking them since I was a kid,” he explained easily. “Genetic disorder, you know?” He slipped the bottle back into his jacket pocket and turned to the woman.

“Are you excited for the show?” she asked, cleverly choosing not to pry further. 

In a vague way, the woman reminded Stiles of a mother hen, with her white hair, fluffy dress, and kind, intelligent eyes. He liked her, enough that he held back all the reasons magicians were nothing more than deceitful, manipulative, liars.

“Uh, yeah. I guess you could say that,” he said, glancing towards the empty stage.

“Are you here alone?” the woman asked, and Stiles turned back to her.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Oh, you must really like magicians then. My husband and I always come to see them when they're in town.”

Stiles bit back the words that threatened to spill from his mouth in a slew. The woman was nice, and she didn’t deserve the rant.

“That's – that's nice,” he said.

“It is,” the older woman's face brightened. When she nodded her head a few more gray strands escaped her bun. The woman didn't seem to care. “Is this your first show? Have you seen them before?”

“I've seen other magicians,” Stiles said. “Not these two.”

“Oh, you do love magicians. That's good. More young people need to see the magic in the world. They're all too lost in their cell phones these days,” she sighed.

Stiles dug his fingers into the chair. If he'd been able to move his feet he would have tapped them. He did not think more young people needed to 'see magic in the world.' Magic was not safe. Magic was not good. Magic was not _real_ , he reminded himself when his thoughts started to drift towards things he himself could not yet explain, but one day would. He had too.

The woman spoke of nothing else but her love and fascination of magic the entire time they waited for the show to begin. It was painful, to a point where Stiles wondered if the woman had been specifically moved to these seats to hurt him. Still, it was hard not to find her puppy-like enthusiasm endearing.

When the lights started to dim Stiles let out an audible sigh of relief.

“I'm excited too,” the woman whispered.

The show started the same as any other. Eerie music drifted from carefully concealed speakers. The blood-red curtain rose, tinted with hints of vibrant yellow, greens, and reds from the lighting up above.

The crowd was still and quiet as they waited for the show to begin. All except for Stiles, who huffed and looked away from the ostentatious display.

_It's not real. It's stupid,_ he thought. _They're deceiving you._

His head whipped back towards the stage on reflex as a loud pop of noise like a firecracker sounded in the room. The two magicians were on stage now, taking their bows.

When Peter raised his head his eyes met Stiles. He winked.

The audience erupted in anticipatory applause. With a subtle wave from Deucalion they quieted down again. The man gave a small little speech on the beauty and wonder of magic before producing a solitary white dove from behind his still-raised hand.

As with the previous show, Peter produced a similar one as his partner.

Another round of applause followed suit.

Stiles stuck his tongue out. It was a rather amateur performance for the world's 'best magician duo,' he thought.

_Now make yourselves disappear,_ he urged silently in his mind. Those were the kinds of tricks he liked.

_Stilesssss,_ a voice purred in the back of his brain.

Stiles clenched his jaw. He tried to look away from the stage, but as with his feet they refused to obey his commands. He could move his eyes but not his head. It was as if two great hands had grasped his face and forced it to remain straight. He dug his fingernails into the seat and glared at Peter.

_None of this is real,_ he thought spitefully. _That bastard must have drugged me somehow._

Peter glanced at him then, and winked as if he'd heard the thought. The man now held two birds on each shoulder and a fifth resting on his outstretched fingers.

Deucalion, likewise had his own assortment of birds which he summoned with a snap and a tiny spark of flame.

It wasn't anything Stiles hadn't seen before, and he was already intimately familiar with how their shows usually worked. It wasn't difficult to pay a few young college students to sneak in a couple of hidden cameras, or find already uploaded footage on various internet sites. There was only one part of the act, the finale, that he hadn't completely figured out quite yet.

Unable to look away he slumped in his seat. He tried to let his mind wander off, but it was difficult when the scene in front of him were filled with flashing lights, energetic music, and two very attractive magicians. Every once in awhile he would find Peter staring over at him, usually smirking.

Stiles face would turn red and he'd stick out his tongue, unable to help himself.

Peter would make a soundless chuckle and go back to his trick.

Deucalion didn't pay him any attention at all. He smiled at the crowd but it was to the crowd at large. Sometimes he'd spill a few charming words from his mouth before returning to the task at hand. Occasionally he would give a flourished bow.

Finally, the show started to draw to a close and Stiles mind was overtaxed. At each and every trick he recited in his head the various ways it could be performed.

The voice growled in the back of his brain, each and every time pushing against Stiles' mental defenses. His eyelids started to lower but snapped back open when he saw a cage being lowered from the ceiling. A few assistants scurried about and helped lower it into place directly in the center of the stage.

The voice reared in the back of his mind with eager anticipation. It latched onto doubt and fallacies like a starving wolf onto a piece of fresh meat and this trick was one that had eluded Stiles for months.

Stiles braced himself. His nails dug into the chair.

_It's not real,_ he told himself. _It's not real. It's not real. It's not real._

_It is, you know,_ the voice said back.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter disappeared behind the enclosure. It was pitch black inside – unsettling for his human form but his wolf reveled in the darkness. The dark was quiet and calm, in the dark he was hidden and safe.

He waited until he heard Deucalion outside and the return of the orchestra’s music. He took a deep breath and drew his magic up into his chest. He flexed his fingers as an uncomfortable, feverish sensation overtook him. His vision blurred as he shifted on his feet.

In his mind, he saw the vision of the sleek, black wolf staring back at him. He envisioned the black and gray flecked fur and imagined it wrapped around himself like a coat. He imagined the world the way the wolf saw it. Colors blended together and his vision sharpened and focused as his eyes changed. His bones went ' _snap_ ' and ' _crunch_ ' as they reshaped themselves.

He gasped as he fell to his knees. His muscles writhed and tightened. He clenched his eyes shut tight and tried to block out the awful skin-crawling, stomach-churning, nausea inducing writing in the pit of his stomach. of shape-shifting. It was over in a matter of seconds and yet it felt like hours had passed.

He reopened his eyes to the darkness of the cage. The details of the floorboards had been invisible to him when he was a human but with the wolf’s perfect night-vision he could see each and every intricate mark clearly. His nostrils flared as they were flooded with new smells. He shook himself to shake off the discomfort of having suddenly sprouted fur.

The black cloth was ripped away from the enclosure. He crouched and barred his fangs as he was suddenly exposed to the world. The hot red and blue spotlights beaming down on him made his hackles raise. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was just a performance but it wasn't just his body that had transformed. His mind worked differently now. It was a struggle to think in actual words and not only feelings.

The bars of the cage fell away. They made an awful noise as they clanged against the floor. He swiveled his ears away from it.

Out of his periphery he saw someone approaching him. A threat.

He whipped his head to face it with his teeth fully exposed.

Deucalion looked down at him, his hand fully extended towards him.

Peter's defensive posture dropped in favor of respect, relief, and annoyance.

Deucalion was not a threat. His wolf mind brought up glimpses of memory when he'd been with Deucalion before. He saw the remnants of a great fire. He remembered the feel of hands against his flank and later the tentative bandaging of his scarred muscles. Deucalion had gentle hands, he knew that and so he allowed the man close enough to place his palm against his course black and gray fur.

Deucalion smiled softly and dug his fingers through the dense hairs down to the rough skin underneath. He said something that in his current form Peter couldn't understand. Then he looked back to the crowd of people watching them.

Peter watched them too. He watched every little movement they made. His eyes honed in one the ones who moved too much. _Prey, prey, prey,_ his wolf brain said. His claws unsheathed. He ran his eyes over every single person sitting in their tightly packed rows. They shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. All but one sitting in the very middle of the aisle.

His heart swelled with something warm as he met the whiskey eyes of the man in the middle of the aisle. He felt a puppy-like excitement at seeing him there, mixed with the prey-driven urge to dash off the stage and pin him down and lick his skin right off.

He whined, the confusing thoughts disturbed his brain. The human part of him pulled away. He could feel himself separating from the beasts. It was only Deucalion's hand tightly wound in his coat that stopped him from leaping off the platform.

The longer he stared at the whiskey eyes the more unnerved he felt. The man was fidgeting too but not for the same reasons. He didn't just look uncomfortable he looked in pain. His brows were furrowed like he was thinking incredibly hard. His lips moved subtly like he was speaking in a whisper but the people sitting next to him either didn't hear or didn't care. His hands gripped the chair so tight his nails dug into the material. He was sweating just slightly.

_Stiles,_ his human brain supplied and his wolf mind responded with a low, concerned growl. The happiness he felt when meeting his gaze disappeared underneath worry and confusion.

There were too many sounds and smells in the audience for him to pinpoint the Stiles directly. He wasn't even looking in his direction, he was looking at the back of the chair in front of him. One of his tightly clenched hands released the chair and dug into his pocket. He pulled out a solitary blue pill, stuck it in his mouth, and swallowed it dry.

“Peter,” Deucalion hissed beside him. His words were just below a whisper. “Don't you think you should be doing something?”

Peter blinked. Yes. He should be doing something.

He looked back at the stage. He was supposed to do some sort of trick, he knew that, he could remember having done it hundreds of times before. It didn't matter.

He looked back to Stiles. He didn't want to look away from him again. Stiles needed help. He should be closer to Stiles.

He shook Deucalion's hand off his body and leaped forward.

Several people in the crowd screamed as he lunged for the front of the stage. A few jumped back, several scrambled up from their seats, while the rest sat frozen. The pungent scent of their fear hit him. It was a horrible, sickly smell.

Stiles eyes jerked up from where he'd fixated. His pupils were blown wide. He did not move.

“Peter!” Deucalion shouted at him.

Peter snarled back at him, never once taking his eyes off Stiles's face.

His lips were set in a deep curve downwards.

Peter lowered his body to the ground in preparation to jump at the human he longed to be beside. He wanted to be at his side and nuzzle him until his pretty eyes were sad no longer.

His attention was ripped away from Stiles as a small pain shot through Peter's left back leg. He yelped and skipped backwards, long nails scrambling against the hardwood stage. Looking at the limb he could see nothing physically wrong with it but still his muscles burned.

_Burn. Burning. Fire._ That horrid familiar feeling of flames licking against his flesh.

Like the frozen audience members his limbs locked up. A noise gurgled from his throat that was neither screech nor scream. It was a low guttural sound.

Deucalion's face contorted with guilt. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's okay, Peter.” The calm was broken by cracks of in his tone. 

Peter looked at Deucalion. His ears flattened against his head. The pain in his leg stopped as soon as he'd meet Deuc's eyes but it would be back. He could still feel it. It would come back and he would be in pain again. He would suffer. His fur would singe and the air would fill with the acrid scent of burnt hairs and blistered and bloody skin.

_Help me,_ he thought. His tail lowered. _Help me._

He let out a soft, pitiful whine and completely forgot about the whiskey-eyed man in the crowd. He breathed in short, uneasy pants that did little to deliver oxygen to his lungs.

A loud 'crack' assaulted his over sensitive ears. A flash of pale green light consumed him. The stage beneath his paws disappeared to be replaced by thick carpeting that felt strange between his toes. The discordant music was gone, the only scents of strange people were stale and faint.

He opened his eyes and saw four cream colored walls and an overstuffed bed with a blue comforter. He was back in his hotel room and he was alone.

He gathered together the remaining pieces of his functional brain and crawled underneath the bed.

*

Stiles watched the gigantic wolf with rapt attention as Deucalion gently lead it back up onto its feet and magicked it away with another flash of light. This time it was green.

“That was quite scary, wasn't it?” whispered the woman sitting beside him.

“Yeah,” Stiles said breathlessly. His head throbbed. He could still feel the nogitsune’s claws digging into his shoulders, invisible to the rest of the crowd. He could hear him chuckling. He could feel it's breath ghosting on the nape of his neck. He felt like he'd run a thousand miles. His feet were finally unstuck from the floor but with the way they shook like jello he was too strained to move them.

The fear of the crowd when the wolf surged forward gave it strength. It only intensified Stiles determination to solve this magic trick. He would leave no room for doubt or fear while the malevolent thoughts made it's home in his mind.

“Do you think there's something wrong with that thing?” she asked. “I saw it on the news once and it never behaved like _that._ ”

“I don't know.” He doubted it. The look in the creature's eyes when they'd been staring at each other was far too intelligent. It was too familiar. He felt like he'd been looking into the eyes of a friend not a creature twice the size of a regular wolf and full of snapping teeth.

“It's probably inbred,” she continued matter-of-factly. “That's how they get them so big. Poor things probably got mental problems.”

“Maybe,” Stiles agreed. It was a good theory but even the most massive of wolf's didn't get _that_ huge. Still, he was willing to let someone else do the theorizing while his brain recovered in its shut-down state.

He got up to stretch out his legs as soon as most of the crowd and the old woman had dissipated. As he stood a blue rose fell to the floor.

He frowned and bent down to pick it up – noticing a black envelope with a blue border beside it.

*

It took nearly half an hour for Peter to regain himself. He clawed back bits of mind piece by piece. It had been many years since the fire destroyed his home, and yet the memory still sent him into a painful downward spiral.

Shifting back was a touch less painful but his rescinding fur left little pinpricks all down his arms and legs like spiders crawling over his body.

The reality of what he had done came crashing down on him as he finally resumed his human form. He'd lost control of his wolf. He let his mind be consumed by the emotions that coiled within his heart. He could feel a lecture coming, but first he wanted to take a shower.

He stripped out of his clothes and locked himself in the bathroom. He could still feel the phantom sensation of pain in his leg as a distant but palpable memory. The cool tiles underfoot were a welcome reminder that he wasn't back underneath the heat of the flames.

In the mirror, he saw the eyes of the wolf, electric-blue and near glowing. He blinked but the image remained. The tickle of fur just below his skin unnerved him. He turned from the mirror and towards the shower instead, pushing away thoughts of the beast in his mind.

He let the shower run cold for a few seconds before slowly edging it up to lukewarm. He stepped inside and closed the glass door. The water hit his back and washed the spiders from his skin. He breathed and turned the water up a few more notches. His overtaxed muscles relaxed as the water streamed down over his body.

He stayed underneath the spray until the water started to cool. When he exited the shower he wiped condensation from the mirror and found his eyes returned to their natural blue.

He redressed into a sweatshirt and jeans, knowing exactly whom he'd find waiting for him in the other room.

Deucalion sat on the bed wearing his regular street clothes, his hands folded neatly in his lap like a school teacher. On his face was a light frown that deepened as he made eye contact with Peter.

“First, let me say that I am sorry,” Deucalion said.

“For what?” Peter asked. He stood with his arms crossed in the doorway of the bathroom.

Deucalion sighed. “Don't be stubborn. I know I upset you. It wasn't my intention to cause you harm. I should have realized that-”

“I can handle a little fire,” he said, feeling a stab at his pride. “I wasn't _upset_. I was just surprised.”

“Okay,” said Deucalion slowly. “Then do you want to explain to me what happened, if you weren't upset?”

“I don't know,” Peter said . “I just got a little carried away. Don't pretend like it's never happened to you.”

He ignored Deuc and strode over to the full-length mirror by the door. He combed his fingers casually through his damp hair.

“You almost sent our audience screaming through the streets in terror. I had to do a lot of damage control to make animal control think it was all part of the act. I had to 'convince' a very determined humane officer that the wolf was a strangely colored husky.” Through the mirror Peter saw Deucalion subtly arch one brow over his eye.

Peter's wolf curled up within his chest, longing peculiarly for Stiles and his deep whiskey eyes and cinnamon hair. He wanted to know that he was okay. That what he had done hadn't hurt him.

“My wolf was upset about something,” he explained. He turned and crossed his arms.

“Something or someone?”

“ _Don't_ be like that,” Peter cautioned him. He raised his index finger in warning.

Deucalion pursed his lips. He clicked his tongue before continuing. “I'm just asking questions.”

“I made a mistake. We all do it. Let it go.”

“I know that and I'm not mad it happened. I'm curious as to _why_ it happened.” He tilted his head to one side.

“I don't know,” Peter said only vaguely aware of how childish he sounded. “I wasn't thinking. I was a wolf for god's sake. All I could think was noise, dark, bright, hungry, warm -”

“ _Stiles_?”

Peter clamped his mouth shut and tightened his fingers over his crossed arms. A growl lingered in his throat. He didn't like hearing the name from Deucalion's mouth. A tiny spark ignited and tightened his throat.

Deuc's face softened. “So, it is him?” 

“What does it matter?” Peter asked again.

Deucalion sighed and stood up. “Trust me, there is no one happier than myself to see you making a friend but I'm confident he's not the kind you should have. Are you forgetting it’s his chosen profession to ruin magicians? Have you considered that he might be-” his tone grew steadily more stern as he continued. “He would not hesitate to rob us of our careers and thus, our livelihoods. I'd hate to see you confuse obsession for affection.”

“He's not,” Peter felt the need to defend. “Stiles is … Well I'm not sure what he's looking for but it isn't that. He has his own motives but he's not cruel.”

“You don’t know that. If there is even the _tiniest_ possibility that he's a witch hunter than we should-”

“He. Isn't. Stiles is … Well I'm not sure what he is but he isn't cruel. I looked into the eyes of a cruel women as she set myself and my nephew on _fire_ , in case you've forgotten,” Peter said. “Cruel people always look the same. Stiles isn't one of them.” The wolf let out a small snarl at the memory of the brunette women and her dark, hateful eyes. He remembered the way the flames lit up her pupils and made her dark red lipstick look pale by comparison. He remembered the curve of her smile as the flames licked at his bones.

“I'm sure Derek never thought Kate was cruel,” Deucalion said quietly. Peter winced at the mention of his nephew. “If I remember correctly he adored her. Just like you-”

“Stiles is not Kate,” Peter snapped. 

“He's a liability, Peter. Even if he's not planning to burn your house down around you he's still distracting you from what you need to be doing. Your performance on stage is suffering.” Deucalion drew closer and put a hand on Peter's shoulder.

Peter stepped away from his touch. “If you have an issue with my performance, then why don't you play the wolf instead?” Peter asked with an arched brow. In that moment he missed his fur coat. The wolf didn't second guess itself. The wolf knew what it needed, what it wanted, and there could be nothing else.

Deucalion's eyes narrowed. “I-” he started to say, his voice raising an octave.

In the past Peter had made a game of seeing just how far he could push the pacifistic Deucalion until he finally snapped and ordered him away. It had been funny then, but now it was just annoying.

Deucalion took a deep breath and closed his eyes for several seconds while he slowly inhaled and exhaled. When he opened his eyes again the calm had returned to his demeanor.

“I can't be the wolf,” he said quietly so that Peter had to strain to hear him, “because I'm not capable of shapeshifting in that way. You know how it works – what you shift into depends on your emotional and-” he took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second, and started again. “My skillset is not the same as yours.

“-Emotional and mental capabilities, yes. I don't need the lecture,” Peter cut him off with a dismissive hand-wave. He'd heard the same phrase repeated thousands upon thousands of times since his teenage years. Ever since the day he and Derek first moved in with Deuc, still smelling like soot and flames, their bodies burnt, and broken. Derek hadn't been in the house but the ash clung to his clothes and stained his trembling hands black.

“Apparently you _do_ need the lecture because you put both of us at risk last night,” Deucalion said with barely a waver in his voice. “What would have happened if animal control had been called and they couldn't find a wolf? What would have happened if animal control _did_ find the wolf and wanted you to be put down? Had you thought of that at all?”

Peter slumped against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. He felt like a teenager being scolded and it wasn't a feeling he appreciated. He didn't respond.

“We maintain a very delicate relationship with the magical counsel,” Deucalion continued, stepping forward. “Do you want our magic to get exposed? Do you want them to have a reason to hunt us down? Whether you're willing to believe it or not Stiles is a threat. Because of him _you're_ a threat.”

“What are you suggesting?” Peter asked. He didn't like the way Deuc accentuated the word 'threat' after Stiles name. He turned back to him.

“It would be best if he weren't at the show tomorrow,” Deuc said grimly.

Peter huffed a laugh. “Good luck with that. I don't know if you've noticed but he's pretty damn determined to get in.”

“Then I'll have to have a talk with him.”

“No,” said Peter. He shook his head. The droplets of water that still clung to his hair fell to his shoulders. “If somebodies talking to him-”

“No. I don't trust you to convince him not to attend. If anything you'd _encourage_ it.”

Peter shrugged. “He's not a threat. He's just a cynic.”

Deucalion rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his golden hair. “Honestly, Peter. Do you think I plan on stabbing him? I just want to have a conversation, that's all. I've been pleasant enough thus far.”

“… Fine,” Peter said. He didn't like it. He didn't want Deucalion speaking to Stiles but he couldn't come up with a reasonable excuse for why not.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading n.n I was struggling for a while with whether or not to post this, but thanks to the lovely Tridom I decided to go ahead and do it. If you liked, please leave a comment to make me happy <3 thank you!


End file.
